"Actually it's just begun," Nathan said with a smile. "You can make money somehow from all this, can't you?"
Jackson grinned and spoke to Alf out of the corner of his mouth. "Start shooting, Alf. Jimmy, make sure you get sound levels on everything." He stuck the wire mesh knob in front of Nathan's face.
"This is a microphone, we can record your words with it."
"Answer my question," Nathan said.
"You must be a mind reader, mister. Yeah, we can make plenty off the rights to this stuff, even the Japanese will buy it."
"Perhaps we should talk before you begin."
Jackson's eyes narrowed and he reached down and snapped a switch on the machine in the backpack.
"So talk."
"We are not a rich people. It would be a good thing if you contributed a percentage of your profits to the Den Separatist Movement. Sharing can open many doors."
Jackson smiled. "Ain't no moss growing on you, is there? Okay, how about fifteen percent?"
"Very generous, but twenty-five is the number I had in mind."
"Done."
"Make sure it tells the story we want people to hear."
"No sweat, baby. Roll it, Jimmy. You focused there, Alf? Okay." He held the microphone up again. "Just who are you people?"
"We are the Den Army. For centuries our people have been exploited and oppressed by the Russians. As far as they are concerned, we are at the bottom of the social strata—"
" 'Scuse me, but we got a war to fight," Haimish said waspishly.
"Let's go!" Jackson seemed delighted at the idea. "We can move and interview at the same time."
Nik and Haimish, surrounded by half of Eleanor's squad, ranged out ahead of the camera crew. The sun sank toward the early afternoon horizon and the temperature dropped with it. A few random gunshots echoed through the crisp air, shattering the crystalline stillness.
Two men holding Kalashnikovs emerged from the shadows at the main gate.
"We need the others, Haimish," the smaller man said. "We've got the operations bunker and the prison. They have everything else, including the armory."
"How many 'ave we lost?"
"I don't know the exact number. Heron's over in the operations complex, I think he has numbers and names. Who are those guys?" He pointed to the camera crew, which busily recorded their conversation.
"They're harmless. Just pretend they're not there."
As they passed through the cell blocks, prisoners were being freed and herded into a large room where they could be briefed and offered positions in the DA. The camera crew slowed considerably in order to get shots of everything, including pools of blood and shattered buildings.
Nik hurried into the radio room, where a war of deception could still be won or lost. Six people crowded the room, removing bodies on litters. Half of the radio equipment lay in shards. Pockmarks from bullets cratered the walls and ceiling.
Two medics worked feverishly on someone whose face Nik couldn't see. He walked around them to get a better view. Cora lay on the litter, blinking up at the ceiling, her lower lip trembling.
"Cora! Oh my God, Cora!" Nik knelt down beside her and caught the eye of a medic. The medic shook his head slightly and went back to work stanching the flow of blood from her wounds. "Oh my darling, what have you done?" he said gently.
"I'm, so, sorry." She coughed up a large gobbet of red froth. Nik realized her lungs were destroyed and she was drowning in her own blood. ". . . I wanted, to be your, wife, but . . ."
The animation in her eyes froze into a glassy stare. The tears running down his cheeks surprised him for a moment before he began to sob.
Behind Nik, Benny Jackson tapped Alf Rosario on the shoulder.
"That's enough, Alf, it's a wrap."
They left Nik to his grief.
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36
On the Russia–Canada Highway
Grisha pushed down harder on the accelerator. The increased speed caused the half-track to bounce even more, so he slowed again.
"We'll get there, Grisha, don't worry." Malagni peered out the side window. The man filled the cab, adding to Grisha's anxiety.
"Why don't they send us a message?"
"We agreed not to break radio silence until after all the attacks began. The other Russian bases might be monitoring every wavelength. The longer we can keep them out of this, the better."
"Six more kilometers," Grisha said through clenched teeth. "At this speed I could outrun the whole column on foot."
"We need every vehicle, every rifle, every bullet," Malagni said. "We need every break we can get."
Driving a half-track called for the same habits as piloting a boat. Grisha kept his eyes moving all the time, glancing from side to side, watching the rearview mirror, minding the ditches and keeping a keen eye as far ahead as possible. Diesel stench wafted through the firewall but he couldn't roll down the window without subjecting his ears to frostbite. He noticed they were near the end of a long straightaway and then glanced in the mirror.
As if waiting for his attention, the sound of a plane passed overhead. He glanced up in time to see a Yak fighter flash by in the fading light. The aircraft waggled its wings and flew in a wide circle around them.
"Colonel Yuganin," a voice rasped from the radio. "This is Talon Six. Chena Redoubt is under attack. Tetlin has lost radio contact with them. Over."
Malagni picked up the microphone. "We are advancing at top speed. Are there more aircraft to assist us?"
"No. Only three other aircraft exist in this sector. Four other redoubts are also under attack. The other three Yaks have gone north to hit Tanana Redoubt. We believe our garrison there has been nullified."
"And the other battles?" Malagni tried to put disbelief into his voice.
"In question," the pilot said. "Are you going to attack now?"
"Yes!" Malagni said. He dropped the microphone, pushed the roof hatch open and pulled on the mottled Russian parka next to him.
"Do you want me to stop?" Grisha asked.
"No, this won't take long." Malagni stood up behind the twin 9mm machine guns mounted above the cab roof.
Grisha heard the plane coming back over them. The machine gun fired four quick bursts. Trailing fire and smoke, the fighter angled down ahead of them, veered to the right, and dropped into the trees. The explosion lit the roadside forest for a blinding moment.
Malagni slammed the hatch shut and dropped onto the bench seat. "How's that for nullify? By all that's holy," he said wonderingly, "we might actually pull this off."
Complete darkness shrouded Chena when they roared down the street. The aurora borealis scrolled and winked overhead as the wood portions of the gates of the redoubt burned furiously.
Bullets splanged across the hood of the half-track. Grisha stomped on the brake, slewed the vehicle sideways, and roared off the street to crash through the wall of a house. The trucks behind them pulled to the sides of the road.
"By the Raven!" Malagni shouted.
"Are you hurt?" Grisha asked.
"Why are they shooting at us?"
"Perhaps they don't know who we are?"
"Good point, Grisha," Malagni said with a grin. "We are in a Russian half-track."
Both men broke into maniacal laughter.
Malagni crawled out of the cab and screamed into the night.
"This is the Den Army! Who dares fire at us?"
"Friend," someone shouted. A figure materialized out of the gloom. Claude stopped a few meters from them and smiled. "I think you're just in time to make a difference."
"What do you want us to do?" Malagni asked, suddenly sane again.
Claude told them, then disappeared behind the walls. Malagni conferred with the other drivers, then jumped back in the cab with Grisha.
"Temperature's dropping fast out there," he said absently. "You ready to go kill some more Russians?"
"Do
we have a choice?"
"No," Malagni said with a humorless laugh, "I guess we don't. Drive right up to the gate."
Grisha gunned the half-track backward and spun it around on one track until he was straight on the road again. He roared up to the gate and blew the air horn. Gunfire slackened inside the walls.
An iron shutter crashed open and a gun barrel poked out.
"Who is there?" a voice demanded in Russian.
"Colonel Yuganin and the remnants of the Troika Guard!" Grisha roared. "Open the gate, we're freezing out here!"
"At once, Colonel. There has been an attack. Rebels are inside the compound."
The gates opened swiftly and Grisha sped inside. The five trucks followed close behind him. When the tanks entered, they separated and scattered around the courtyard, stopping next to Russian strong points.
A sergeant with red flashes on his parka ran up to the half-track and pulled the door open.
"Colonel Yuganin. We must make an immediate assault. They have the operations complex."
Malagni put the muzzle of his machine pistol between the man's eyes.
"Cooperate and you'll live, Sergeant."
The man jerked to a stop and his breath puffed out in a cloud around his face.
"Where—where's the colonel?"
"Dead, along with the rest of his command," Malagni said flatly.
The tanks swiveled their turrets around until they menaced the armory from three directions.
"You can't win," the Indian said, "but you can live."
The sergeant lost all animation and his shoulders slumped.
"Very well, I'll signal my men to lay down their arms."
Before the men in the cab could say anything, the sergeant put a whistle to his lips and blew three short blasts.
A streak of fire shot out from the armory and exploded in the right front wheel well next to the sergeant, blowing him to pieces and fragmenting the cab door. The pressure and shrapnel blew Malagni against Grisha with such force that they both burst out through the driver's side of the cab into a heap on the frozen ground.
Weapons crashed and shrieked around them. Each of the tanks fired at the armory three times before hitting explosives inside. Suddenly the doors and windows blew outward with stunning concussion. Everything fell silent.
White sheets and towels appeared at the smashed windows of the barracks. Russian troopers crawled from their shelter with hands high in the biting air. Grisha sat up and held his hands over his ringing ears.
"Jesus!" he said with a croak. "What happened, Malagni?"
"Bad shit." Malagni sounded dazed. "Look what they did to my arm." Malagni's right arm hung shattered, connected only by a shred of bicep. Blood squirted in measured jets from the mangled flesh.
"Oh, God. We gotta tie that off!" Grisha pulled his belt off and looped it under Malagni's shoulder, pulled it as tight as he could and knotted it. The jets of blood dropped to a steady trickle "Medic! We need a medic over here!"
A woman ran over to them, glanced at the wound, and blew a sharp blast on a whistle. Two men appeared with a collapsible litter and the three of them rolled Malagni onto the canvas and hauled him away.
Hands pulled Grisha to his feet and led him into warmth and light. Equilibrium returned as he walked. He found himself in a large garage.
Paul emerged from a corner. "You're a mess, what happened?"
"I think they hit us with with one of those antitank weapons," Grisha told him. He tried to shake off the numbness he felt, and forced himself to focus on events around him, swallowing repeatedly to ease the ringing in his ears. The place stank of gunpowder and he felt chilled to the bone.
"What's happened here?"
"Most of them have come over to our side. We got about eighty new recruits. About twenty possess a usable skill other than cleaning or killing."
"Malagni's in a bad way," Grisha said. "Where's Nathan and Haimish?"
"Operations complex, through those doors over there. Chan's there, too, along with a camera crew from California."
"A what?" Wing asked, coming up behind them.
Paul explained about the visitors from the Republic of California.
"Casualties must have been light to have a bunch like that running around," she said.
"We lost some good people," Paul responded.
The door opened and Nik came out. One look at the Russian's streaming face told Grisha that he hadn't faced all the bad news yet.
"Oh, Nik, it's Cora, isn't it?"
Nik nodded dumbly, weeping uncontrollably. The sudden lump in Grisha's throat constricted his breathing.
"I am so sorry. Was it . . . quick?"
"She said she wanted to marry me, then," he swallowed, "then she died."
Grisha hugged his friend to him and Nik's head dropped to his shoulder and he sobbed.
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37
Tetlin Redoubt
A quarter bottle of vodka filled the void behind Crepov's belt and fogged his brain when someone pounded on the door. Katti jumped like she'd been burned. Her jumpiness always pissed him off.
He lurched to his feet with a growl. This time he wouldn't take his anger out on the woman. With a violent jerk he pulled the heavy wooden door open creating a minus-thirty-degrees Celsius gust of wind.
Two Special Unit cossacks stared balefully in at him. He pulled up short, concentrated on the extreme cold, let it burn at the scar on his face to clear his head. They both towered over him.
"We must go immediately to headquarters and you must be with us," the biggest and ugliest one said.
"I get my coat." Crepov pulled his parka off its peg. He knew when to walk with the wind.
Katti shivered behind the door, ready to shut it as soon as possible. Most of the warmth in the single room had vanished along with his drunkenness. He hurried out, pushed between them, and strode rapidly toward the operations building.
The cold robbed him of anger. By the time he stormed past the sentry he had decided to first listen to the colonel before telling him to put this job sideways up his anus. He stiff-armed the office door open and jerked to a stop.
Valari wore the insignia of a major and the corporal had a third stripe. No good, he reflected, the man will always be a corporal.
The two flanked the colonel, who glowered from behind his desk.
"Good of you to come out on a night like this, Bear," he said with no hint of sarcasm. "We need your special skills."
Crepov saw the man's eyes flick over his scar before recapturing his gaze. He let himself glance at the other two. Nobody smiled in condescension tonight. He realized they didn't want him here any more than he wanted to be there. His interest flared.
"For what?"
"Something happened at Chena Redoubt. We need you to go take a look."
"Why don't you send one of your wonderful helicopters?"
"Do you refuse to go?" Valari asked softly, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head.
Her manner reminded Crepov of an attack dog anticipating trouble. In a rare flash of insight, he realized how well she fit that description. She was just more dangerous than other bitches.
"I need as much information as possible to make judgment," Bear said flatly.
"We cannot put an aircraft closer than a kilometer to Chena Redoubt," the colonel said tiredly. "They get shot down."
"What!" Bear's brain reeled with implications. "Chena Redoubt is not under the control of the Imperial Army?"
"Nor is Tanana Redoubt. Bridge Redoubt is under heavy attack and the odinochkas around Fort Yukon, Huslia, and Koyuk do not answer us at all. We believe the Den Separatists are responsible. Either that or a well-organized mutiny."
"It must be mutiny, a very large mutiny," Bear muttered, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. "The Indians aren't organized enough to pull off something this big." He regarded the three of them thoughtfully.
"Of course we can." The colonel wouldn't rise to the bait. Crepov finally noticed the purple pouches under the man's eyes. "Can you leave immediately?"
"Yes. Within the hour."
"Would you like company?" Valari asked neutrally.
"You would be welcome," he said slowly. "But only if you left your pet corporal here."
"I'm a sergeant," the man said through clenched teeth.
Crepov gave him an amused look. "Your arm says that. But we know differently, don't we?" He turned and hurried back into the night.
Maybe he would find Grigoriy Grigorievich at Chena Redoubt. That would make it all worthwhile.
He grinned fiercely as the cold burned at his scar.
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38
Chena Redoubt
Grisha huddled in the corner, nearly asleep, listening to the ever-lengthening interview.
"So this is a civil war?" Jackson asked Chan.
"No. We have never been part of Russian society, we have always been a subjugated people." The old man's eyes twinkled. "This is a revolution, we are finally striking back at a power which has oppressed us for centuries."
"Can you rig me a patch, Jimmy?" Jackson asked his technician.
"Ain't no way we're gonna get a radio signal out of here," Scanlon said.
"Only one way to find out, Jimmy, baby. And that's to try it."
"What is it that you wish to do?" Chan asked.
"Hook into our network down in California."
"Network," Haimish said. "You can communicate with California from here?"
"Let ya know in a few minutes," Jimmy said.
"Can you patch us through to the U.S.?" Haimish asked.
Jackson studied Haimish with an air of assessment.
"It might not be impossible," he said slowly. "But what's in it for us?"
"A place in history as a participant rather than a bystander."
Russian Amerika (ARC) Page 19